


The Parm Offensive

by Robin Hood (kjack89)



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Chicken Parmesan, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Crack, Friendship, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-10 03:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21454246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/Robin%20Hood
Summary: Suddenly, Olivia seemed unable — or unwilling — to make eye contact. “Actually, no,” she said, tracing her finger along the rim of her wine glass. “He apparently made some food for a friend.”“A friend,” Barba repeated, skepticism plain in his voice.Olivia shrugged. “We had a case recently that crossed jurisdiction into Queens,” she said, “and Carisi ran into one of his Fordham Law professors—”Recognition crossed Barba’s face, followed almost immediately by an odd, closed look. “Of course,” he said tonelessly, taking another sip of scotch, “Isaiah Holmes.”
Relationships: Rafael Barba/Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 209





	The Parm Offensive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ReginaCole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReginaCole/gifts).

> I stumbled on [this article](https://nypost.com/2019/11/12/how-chicken-parm-became-nycs-aphrodisiac-of-choice/) from the New York Post, and, well...I couldn't not :)
> 
> For Reagan, with hopes of nothing but fluff for as long as you need it <3
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

“Sorry I’m late,” Olivia said with a sigh as she sat down across from Barba at the restaurant where they had agreed to meet for dinner, a dinner which had already been rescheduled several times due to work and once because of a stomach bug Noah picked up in school.

But Barba didn’t look perturbed that she was running late as he finished typing an email on his phone. “Not a problem, you just need to catch up,” he said, tucking his phone back into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and draining his glass of scotch as if proving a point.

Olivia rolled her eyes even as she flagged down their waitress. “I’ll have a glass of cab,” she said, “and my friend will I’m sure take a refill.”

“Of course,” their waitress said. “Are you two ready to order, or do you need a few minutes to look at the menu?”

Barba glanced at Olivia, who shook her head. “No, I think we’re ready,” she said. “I’ll take the caesar salad, dressing on the side.”

She looked expectantly at Barba, whose brow was furrowed. “I’ll have the pork chop special,” he said, handing his menu back to the waitress before raising an eyebrow at Olivia. “Are you not hungry?”

“Can’t I just want a salad?” she asked mildly, taking a sip of water. When Barba’s expression didn’t change, she sighed. “Fine. I had an unplanned big lunch.”

“You could’ve cancelled,” Barba said mildly.

“And then you and I wouldn’t have dinner until after the new year,” Olivia pointed out. “Besides, I still have to eat something.”

Barba half-smiled. “Fair point.” The waitress returned with their drinks and Barba raised his scotch glass in a silent toast before taking a sip. “So what was the unplanned big lunch?”

Olivia waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing exciting, I promise,” she told him. “Carisi swung by the precinct with some leftovers for us, and you know what his cooking’s like.”

Barba’s smile widened. “I certainly do,” he said. “And what were these leftovers from, Carisi family Sunday dinner?”

Suddenly, Olivia seemed unable — or unwilling — to make eye contact. “Actually, no,” she said, tracing her finger along the rim of her wine glass. “He apparently made some food for a friend.”

“A friend,” Barba repeated, skepticism plain in his voice.

Olivia shrugged. “We had a case recently that crossed jurisdiction into Queens,” she said, “and Carisi ran into one of his Fordham Law professors—”

Recognition crossed Barba’s face, followed almost immediately by an odd, closed look. “Of course,” he said tonelessly, taking another sip of scotch, “Isaiah Holmes.”

Olivia glanced up at him. “I’ll take it you know him?” she asked, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

Barba’s expression didn’t change. “You could say that,” he said. “By reputation alone, if nothing else.”

There was something grim in the way he said it, and Olivia cleared her throat, clearly trying to hurry them off the subject. “Anyway,” she said, in a forcibly cheerful kind of way, “they got together recently to catch up on old times and evidently Carisi made dinner for them.”

She said it like it was the end of the subject, but judging by the look on Barba’s face, it wasn’t. “What did he make for them?” he asked.

“I don’t see how that’s important—” Olivia started, breaking off when Barba just gave her a look. “Chicken parmesan.”

Barba’s expression twisted slightly. “Of course he did,” he murmured, something bitter creeping into his tone.

Olivia sighed. “Rafa—” she started, and Barba just waved a dismissive hand.

“It’s fine,” he said, giving her a tight smile.She sighed again. “Don’t do this,” she warned, taking a sip of wine.

“Do what?” Barba asked innocently, and it was Olivia’s turn to answer him with just a look. “I told you, it’s fine.” He picked up his glass of scotch but didn’t take a drink from it, just swirling the amber liquid. “You know, I was reading an article in the New York Post the other day.”

“Oh?” Olivia asked warily, clearly not trusting the abrupt change in topic.

“Yes,” Barba said, though he paused as their waitress returned with their food, watching disapprovingly as Olivia picked at her salad. “It was about chicken parmesan.”

Olivia sighed. “Rafa—”

“And how the way to a man’s heart in New York City is through chicken parm.” Though Barba said it conversationally enough, his tone was belied by the way he stabbed his pork chop with his knife, his expression dark.

Olivia drained her wineglass and made eye contact with their waitress, who hurried to get her another one. “Rafael,” she said firmly, feeling a little bit too much like she was about to talk Noah down from one of his wilder fantasies and wondering what it said about her best friend that talking to him was sometimes like talking to her 7-year-old, “Carisi was not trying to get to ADA Holmes’ heart.”

“You don’t know that,” Barba muttered mutinously.

Olivia’s patience ran out. “You’re right, I don’t,” she said, somewhat sourly. “But seeing as how he’s made chicken parm for literally everyone that you and I both know at one point in time or another, I somehow think it’s more likely that you’re reading too much into this.”

Barba’s scowl didn’t budge. “Or you’re not reading enough into this,” he shot back. “You know how Carisi feels about authority figures, so if he wasn’t trying to get to his heart — or at least into his pants — then what was he doing?”

Olivia ignored Barba’s question. “And I also know for a fact that within the last month Carisi has also made chicken parm for Rollins’ daughters while he was babysitting, so unless you know something about his relationship with Jesse that I don’t…”

Barba made a face. “In your line of work, that’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not, and neither is a grown man sulking because his former colleague made chicken parmesan for another man,” Olivia pointed out evenly. 

Almost as if against his will, the corners of Barba’s mouth twitched towards a smile. “Well, when you put it like that…”

He trailed off and Olivia watched for a moment as he started eating his dinner with renewed enthusiasm. “Besides,” she added, almost sweetly, after he had taken several bites, “why do you care if Carisi made chicken parm for his former professor?”

Barba choked on the bite of pork chop he had just taken. “I...don’t?” he attempted weakly, and when Olivia merely raised an eyebrow, he sighed and scowled down at his dinner, chasing bits of potato with his fork. “I care because I–I—”

He couldn’t seem to get the words out, and Olivia let him flail for a minute before supplying innocently, “Because you wish he was making chicken parm for you?”

Barba’s eyes flashed up to hers and then away. “Something like that, anyway,” he muttered.

“And have you tried, um, telling him you want him to make you chicken parm?”

Barba snorted. “Can we use our actual words, please?”

Olivia smiled slightly. “Fine,” she said. “Have you tried telling him that you have feelings for him?”

“I wanted to,” Barba admitted, his ears flushing red with embarrassment. “Before, anyway. But now…”

“But now what?” Olivia asked quietly.

“But now…” Barba trailed off again, but this time, a small smile crossed his face as he sat up straighter. “But now I think it’s going to take more than me just telling him.”

Olivia eyed him warily, noticing a particularly gleam in his eye that she hadn’t seen since Barba had last tried a Hail Mary move in the courtroom. “What are you planning?” she asked, suspicious.

Barba just shrugged as he finished the rest of his dinner in what had to have been record time. “Nothing,” he said, “In a way that clearly suggested he was lying. “Just remembered something else from that Post article.”

Olivia sighed. “Didn’t we agree—?” she started, but Barba cut her off.

“No, not like that,” he assured her. “Just — I think I know what I’m going to do. For Carisi.”

Olivia watched him as he drained his scotch, something almost triumphant in his expression. “Do I even want to know?” she asked tiredly.

Barba smirked. “Let’s just say, it’s the Parm Offensive.”

“Nope,” Olivia said, spearing a piece of lettuce. “Definitely do not want to know.”

* * *

A few evenings later, Barba nodded his greeting to the nighttime patrol officer stationed at the entrance to One Hogan Place, grateful that he was still on good terms with the night guards from his many late nights spent there. This way, he could walk in like he still worked there.

Which was good, because he could only imagine the kinds of questions he would have to endure, carrying a large, foil-covered baking dish into the building after business hours.

He made his way to where Carmen had told him they had stuck Carisi, pausing to admire what was, frankly, a fairly pathetic sight, the man hunched over his desk, a single light casting shadows across his face that made him look even more tired than usual. His jacket was hung over the back of his chair, and his shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows.

Best of all, his hair had started to escape his hair gel’s grip, falling forward across his forehead in a way that made him look entirely disheveled.

Carisi looked like an exhausted wreck, and still Barba’s heart swelled at the sight.

“Knock, knock,” he called, and Carisi looked up, startled.

“Barba?” he asked, running a tired hand across his face. “What are you doing here?”

“Heard you’ve been working some late nights recently,” Barba said. “Figured I’d repay the favor you did for me many, many times over and bring you some food.”

He held up the baking dish and Carisi’s eyes lit up. “My hero,” he said eagerly, watching as Barba approached and set the foil-covered dish down on his desk. “What place did you get takeout from?”

“No takeout,” Barba said casually, passing Carisi a plastic fork. “I made some chicken parmesan.”

Carisi blinked. “You _ made _ it?” he asked, somewhat skeptically. “Why?”

Barba shrugged, peeling back a corner of the aluminum foil. “Because you’re always making dinner for everyone else, including me on occasion,” he said. “Figured it was past time I returned that particularly favor as well.”

Carisi’s eyes fluttered closed as the first whiff of delicious chicken parm hit his nose, and his smile softened. “I love chicken parm,” he told Barba, scooching his chair forward to be able to reach it better. He paused, his fork hovering just above the dish. “You know, my sister sent me this article from the New York Post the other day that was about chicken parm.”

Barba’s mouth went dry. “Oh, really?” he asked weakly, staring at the stack of casefiles on Carisi’s desk as if they were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

To his surprise, Carisi just chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, and Barba chanced a glance at him just in time to see his dimples deepening as he grinned. “About how the way to a man’s heart is through chicken parm, of all things.”

He said it somewhat dismissively, and Barba’s heart sank further, because leave it to Carisi to be the only man in New York immune to the powers of chicken parm. “Well, it seems as good a way as any, I guess,” he said with a forced laugh.

Carisi just shrugged, still smiling up at Rafael. “Sure, but chicken parm’s a crowd pleaser. I make it whenever I gotta cook a meal for someone because you can’t go wrong—” He broke off, making a face. “Well, unless you’ve got a vegetarian or someone who’s gluten-free, but I think we can all agree that was a one-time mistake I’m probably not gonna make again.” 

“From your lips to God’s ears,” Barba muttered, and Carisi laughed before continuing.

“But seriously, saying chicken parm is the way to someone’s heart is like saying that pizza’s the way to someone’s heart. Everyone likes pizza. You’re not winning anyone over with just pizza, y’know?”

Barba perched on the corner of Carisi’s desk, his brow furrowed. “So what’s your way to someone’s heart, then?” he asked.

Carisi shrugged. “It’s gotta be something that’s either special to them or something special to you.” He glanced up at Barba then away again. “That’s what speaks to the heart.”

Barba nodded slowly. “Like if, say, you made chicken parmesan for someone but using a recipe that meant a lot to the person?”

“Sure, that’d be—” Carisi broke off, eyes widening in realization as he did a fairly comical double-take, looking from the baking dish up to Barba. “Wait a minute. You don’t mean to tell me—”

“Your mother says hello, by the way,” Barba said, a grin breaking across his face, and he took a particularly self-satisfied bite of the chicken parm he had prepared using the Carisi family recipe.

“You made my ma’s chicken parm?” Carisi croaked incredulously, still gaping at Barba. “Holy shit, Raf—”

Barba shrugged. “It was nothing,” he said dismissively, but Carisi shook his head.

“No, it really wasn’t,” he said firmly. He looked back down at the chicken parm, his expression unreadable for a moment. When he looked back up at Barba, every line of exhaustion had disappeared from his expression, replaced by something soft that made Barba’s chest feel warm. “Why would you do this for me?” he asked quietly.

Barba shrugged again, his own smile softening as he looked at Carisi. “Well, like you said, the best way to someone’s heart…”

He trailed off and Carisi beamed at him for a moment before leaning back in his chair and laughing, a full, deep belly laugh that, to Barba at least, sounded full of delight and maybe something like wonder. “Jesus Christ, Rafael, you didn’t have to do all this just to get to, y’know, that. All you had to do was say something, anything.”

“I wanted to,” Barba said honestly, too honest, perhaps, for the moment they were sharing, though he knew if he didn’t say it now, there was a decent chance he’d never find a time to say it. “But then I didn’t and now…” He shrugged. “Now I’m three years too late but at least I brought chicken parmesan.”

“No,” Carisi said, standing and smoothing his tie in a gesture he had almost certainly picked up from Barba at some point. “You made my ma’s chicken parmesan for me.” He crossed to Barba, slotted himself between Barba’s legs, close enough that the fact that they weren’t touching was a minor miracle. “And as far as I’m concerned, you’re right on time.”

Barba didn’t know if he or Carisi closed the space between them first, but in the end, it didn’t matter — Carisi’s hand was cupping his cheek, Carisi’s lips were on his, and the only thing that did matter was him and Carisi.

And a baking dish full of chicken parmesan that was perilously close to getting pushed off the desk entirely.

So Barba broke the kiss far too soon to tell Carisi, a little breathlessly, “You know, Counselor, I didn’t take you as a man who would be willing to let perfectly good chicken parmesan go to waste.”

Carisi rolled his eyes. “I can always heat it up,” he told Barba, leaning in to kiss him again. But after only a moment, it was Carisi who broke the kiss. “Then again, it doesn’t taste as good as leftovers as it does when it’s fresh.”

It was Barba’s turn to roll his eyes, but with obvious affection. “Then by all means, sit, eat. Or your mother will skin me alive for letting you starve.”

Though Carisi made a face at that, he nonetheless sat back down at his desk, pulling the baking dish to him and digging in to the chicken parm that Barba had made him. And as Carisi closed his eyes in bliss as he took the first bite, Barba allowed himself a small, triumphant smile.

It looked like the parm offensive had worked, and he had found his way to Carisi’s heart after all.


End file.
